In Bloom
by K.E. Scrubbed
Summary: Quinn sends Rachel flowers. Faberry, oneshot.


"Ma'am?"

Quinn looked up, breath catching in her chest as if she had just been found in the midst of a devious act. The florist's shop was warm, almost balmy compared to the lingering chill outside that maintained its thin, crisp grip on New Haven long after it was due for its departure.

"B-A-R-R-Y?" he asked. She shook her head.

"E," she said. "Like the fruit." She snorted to herself, her word choice unintentional. The man gave her a bemused look and turned back to the paper, erasing a smudge and writing over it.

"And what kind of flowers were you looking to send?" he asked patiently. Quinn had wandered around the store for almost fifteen minutes, eschewing his attempts to assist her, trying to strum up her courage. Finally, after nearly walking out altogether, she had floated up to the front counter like a downy feather making its long, winding landing.

"I'm not sure," she admitted.

"Roses are a popular choice," he suggested. She coughed.

"No," she nearly shouted. "Ah, no, thank you," she repeated, quietly and with measured restraint. She brushed her bangs aside and looked around the store front, eyes bouncing from plant to plant. There was really no casual way of asking a stranger, _What type of flower says 'I love you, but not like that, but definitely like that, but I don't know if I'm ready to tell you that, or if I ever will be, or if I even want to, but I at least want you to know that I do even if I don't want you to know that I do in the way that I do'?_ She could barely keep the thought straight (ha) in her own head, much less articulate it in plain English. Her thoughts spun; she leaned against the counter.

"Well, who are they for?" he asked. She pressed her lips together.

"A friend," she said. He made a distinct hmmming sound.

"I see," he said, sounding unconvinced. The top of his head shone under the fluorescent lights, the majority of his bristly ginger hair seeming to have migrated exclusively to the sides of his head. "Can I ask what they're for?"

"She, ah, she's starring in a show. I want to congratulate her." Quinn said this while making a slow, vague wheeling gesture with her hands, as if she were trying to draw the words out of her own mouth. Her cheeks flushed lightly, and she considered taking her coat off—it was really quite warm, which may not have been entirely to do with the thermostat.

"Well, that's very nice of you," he said casually. "Not many friends would be so generous."

"She's a good friend," Quinn said, almost defensively, as if she had to explain herself to this stranger in a Connecticut flower shop. "She's always been there for me."

"She sounds lovely," he agreed. "Well, have a look around, and if I can be of any help please let me know." She nodded and wandered off again, taking more careful note of the variety of blooms around her. Roses were out, obviously. Too forward. Carnations were for middle school candy-grams. She passed a milky, long-stalked flower and turned to the shop keeper, who was now flipping through a magazine propped up against the register.

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

She gestured towards the flower. He scuttled around the counter, pulling his large, square glasses down off of his bare head and fixing them onto the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, yes, lilies," he said. "They're a very popular choice. Lightly fragrant, delicate, alluring. They symbolize pure, devoted love, and-"

"Not lilies," Quinn said forcefully, cutting him off and striding dramatically down the aisle towards the back of the store. His mouth hung open on the last unfinished word.

She wandered for another ten minutes, five of which she took to regain her steel-faced composure. This wasn't working out. Maybe flowers were a stupid idea. She hadn't even spoken to Rachel since they'd left Lima after the most recent graduation—not on Skype, or on the phone, or even via text. She couldn't manage to send her one single text message, but she was going to send her a bouquet of flowers based on news she heard second-hand via Santana?

She pinched the corners of her eyes with her thumb and index finger, trying to suppress the maddening headache that was brewing behind her forehead. Why did she sing that stupid song with Puck in the choir room? Why had she, yet again, thrown herself into the arms of someone safe who seemed vaguely concerned about her? Finn, Puck, Sam, Biff... it was all the same to her, a blur of smudged lipstick and adjusted expectations.

Her own two feet had never felt like enough to hold her up.

"Ma'am?" She started when she heard the shop keeper's voice again. She had all but forgotten he was there.

"Yes?" She couldn't help the tone of exasperation that escaped her.

"I thought this might help," he said, presenting her with a small green booklet. "Popular bouquet arrangements and their symbolism."

"Oh," she said. "Thank you." He left her to her reading, and she flipped through the dozen or so pages of the booklet. Half-way through her eyes stopped on a flower with pristine, velvety white petals and a bright yellow center.

"Gardenia is a genus of flowering plants in the Rubiaceae family, native to Africa, South Asia, Australasia, and Oceania," she read under her breath. "It has a strong, sweet scent, and is the national flower of Pakistan. The Gardenia symbolizes purity, refinement, and-"

She took in a sharp breath, and was immediately transported to the bottom of the staircase in her parents' house in Lima, Ohio, several years prior. She looked like a Disney princess, light and delicate and shrouded in blue. Finn was presenting her with a single, perfect gardenia, wrapped in a green satin ribbon to match her eyes. She loved it, and had known Rachel was behind it from the moment she laid eyes on it. She and Finn had been spending a lot of time together then, and Finn, rest his kind soul, would not have put together something so subtle, yet profoundly expressive.

"-and secret love," she whispered aloud.

"I'm sorry?" the man said, ears straining to hear her from half-way across the store. She was in New Haven again.

"Uhm, nothing," she said.

Somehow, it always came back to her. She was the only person who had ever truly, completely, unrelentingly, even obnoxiously believed in Quinn's ability to stand on her own two feet. When Quinn had done her best to intentionally hurt Rachel, she stayed by Quinn's side. When she lied, repeatedly, Rachel continued to put her faith in her. When she was crying alone in the bathroom, Rachel blotted away her tears and told her she was the most beautiful girl she had ever seen.

When she felt invisible, Rachel saw her, all of her, and accepted her. Not because she had temporarily forgotten about Quinn's abundance of flaws and inexcusable behaviors... but because she had decided to love Quinn unconditionally, and truly understood the meaning of that word.

"I think I'm ready," Quinn said, approaching the counter and this time turning the tables, frightening the man with her sudden, resolute presence. She handed him the booklet back, still open to the gardenia.

"Those," she said, pointing. "A dozen, please."

"Gardenias, a beautiful choice," he complimented. "I am certain your friend will love them. While I ring up the total, you can fill this out," he said, handing her a small card and a pen. She scrunched her nose at it—it had taken her nearly an hour to decide on the type of flower, did he really want her further agonizing over what to say in a three-by-two card?

_Rachel,_ she began, safe enough. That was where she got stuck. All of her standard poise and grace evaded her, and she felt clumsy and awkward, pen in hand, aware of the man watching her from the corner of his gaze as he punched numbers into the register.

This was the absolute worst. She felt a slight tremor run through her hand, and she willed it steady. How was it possible for an ivy-league student to so completely lose grasp of the English language? She bit her lower lip, thoughts racing.

She closed her eyes, and saw Rachel staring at her from her seat on a stool in the middle of the choir room. She had a bandage over her nose, and light bruising across the bridge. Her eyes were still puffy, and she had the sort of hangdog expression that usually meant she wasn't getting a solo, but didn't this time. Quinn still thought she was beautiful, but she couldn't say it. She wished she could tell Rachel how gorgeous she was, how unique, how singularly fantastic. How she had so much more going for her than a perfectly proportioned Barbie doll face, which was all Quinn felt she had to hide behind. But she couldn't say any of those things.

So she sang them, instead.

She picked up the pen again, and wrote down one short line in her soft, sweeping script.

_There's no other way when it comes to the truth._

She paused, momentarily feeling the courage of the moment slip between her fingers, but grasped it firmly as she signed off.

_Love,_

_Quinn_.


End file.
